


The Thrown Stone Vignettes

by rjn



Category: Sorted (Website) RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2020-11-24 14:58:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20909534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rjn/pseuds/rjn
Summary: James is a deep pool of stillness and Mike feels profoundly compelled to be the thrown stone that sets off ripples.





	1. Chocolate Tornado Orgasm

**Author's Note:**

> I had thought this was done, but I keep writing Mike et al. being royal pains in the butthole to James, so now it's going to have an undefined number of chapters. Chapter Six is where the title and connecting theme came from, so maybe don't skip that one, but everything can stand alone.

1\. Chocolate Tornado Orgasm

Jamie bursts out the door of the building a little more harried than usual, his shoes untied and one arm still reaching for its proper place in his jacket. He is followed by Ben, who is still primly adjusting the zipper on his coat. It strikes Mike that Ben is wearing the Autumnal outerwear equivalent to a chef’s jacket. _Oh, Ebbers._

Ben adjusts his glasses and smiles warmly at Baz and Mike where they wait on the street. The foursome is complete, but there’s still someone missing. Ebbers realizes what Barry and Mike are waiting for.

“Sorry, boys. No James.”

He explains further, with colourful interjections from Jamie. James’ recipe lab had blown up on him in the final minutes, not literally (this time), but badly enough that he is determined to bail on long-standing dinner plans and run through the whole process again. Jamie uses the word “curmudgeonly” in describing James’ silent tantrum, is roundly mocked for it, and reverts to blistering obscenities.

Barry, who had been outvoted for choice of restaurant by James’ weighty ballot and Mike’s complete ambivalence, perks up. Even at his speed with arithmetic, he must realize that James has forfeited his vote, Ben will side with him, and Jamie can _suck it. _At the next corner, where the decision must be finalized for navigational purposes, Mike decides, solely for entertainment value, to end his ambivalence and join Team Jamie.

“On second thought, I could go for a steak.”

Two all. They bicker on the street corner, until predictably Ben wavers, and Baz loses. Mike consoles him by explaining part of his vote has to do with sending photos of the perfect meal to absentee James to rub it in. Barry brightens, though almost imperceptibly. Nobody thrills at antagonizing James nearly so much as Mike.

After appetizers, and a few more drinks than planned, he messages James:

**you stubborn miserable sod **

And the photo of his menu selection, the obscenely portioned rib-eye, complete with butter-poached potatoes and a bourbon peppercorn sauce. Against Barry’s recommendation, he leaves Jamie’s hand in frame, uncropped, holding the matching glass of whiskey hovering ominously over the plate. James is truly missing out.

Mike adds a second line of text:

**nobosy misses you**

No ellipsis appears. No response comes until they’re done with photographs and have begun tucking into their meals. A single notification chime and nothing else. It’s one of those nights when they’re trying to be _present, _so Mike guiltily slides his phone from his pocket and peeks at it under the table edge_._

James hasn’t typed anything in his reply, just attached a hastily taken reference photo of his completed recipe lab, a half-drunk glass of wine visible beyond the focus. It’s a thoughtfully heaped dish, with accompanying sauce plated in one of James’ ridiculous splatter patterns that they refer to as _foodie bukkake_ when the cameras are off. It looks brilliant, whatever it is, and the test kitchen work surface looks weirdly homey where James has set himself a dinner for one, the lack of proper studio lighting somehow inviting. He can practically hear the inevitable after-hours ambience of music from James’ softer-than-soft, much ridiculed playlist.

Mike is nearly insulted that despite earlier catastrophe, James seems to be _enjoying _his lonesome meal.

He crafts his response on autopilot.

**you and your food porn**

And the obligatory wank emojis: waving hand, aubergine, the splashing water drops. It’s not his best banter, but he’s already getting dirty looks for having his phone out during the eating only part of their determinedly non-work meal. He shoves the mobile back into his pocket, but no retort comes anyhow.

For a change, Mike is quiet through the meal and drinks afterwards. There’s enough going on without his input. Jamie is more hyper than usual, and Barry has had some crazy days with his family to report on to everyone. Ebbers has been busy with other projects for so long that he’s asking nonstop questions to get caught up on all of their lives, revelling in the modified gang catch-up that resembles somewhat the fabled Sorted origin story. Mike puts in a joke every once in a while, but in a glancing way, almost James-like.

The drinks place is dessert heavy, the kind of place where couples with babysitters to relieve can go and indulge in sweets rather than soaking in alcohol. _We are old_, proclaims Mike, when they’re all enjoying the vibe of the place more than expected. And _I am nearly surrounded by parents_, he thinks.

James is not a puddings guy, but Mike figures anything chocolate goes over well enough, and gets a takeaway portion of the most expensive offering on the menu. As a bonus, it had some horrible gooey name, the kind of thing James despises, like _Chocolate Heaven_ or _Chocolate Dream_ or possibly _Unseemly Death by Chocolate Ganache with Salted Caramel Obituary_. The guys set off in different directions at the end of the night, and Mike has the length of his solo trip back to the studio to make up something even more horrendous and vaguely masturbatory for James’ derision. _Chocolate Exultation._ Or maybe _Midnight Cocoa Temptation_.

For no good reason, he expects James will still be hard at work (hard at _Fun_) probably diligently cleaning up and doing his post-lab inventory. (You know… _Fun_.) They’ll polish off the bottle of whatever wine was in the glass lurking behind James’ plate in the photo, and Mike will gently correct his playlist, amending it with a choice song here and there, until they’re both too tired to go their separate ways.

The building is locked when he arrives. The studio darker than the bittersweet ganache in what Mike has finally christened a _Chocolate Tornado Orgasm_.

He eats it alone and puts the dirty plate in the rack with the clean. That’ll teach James to go home from _Fun_ early.


	2. Single Occupancy

2\. Single Occupancy

“You’re quiet today, mate.”

Mike is sidelong, just stepping into view. James has his headphones hanging around his neck, so he can hear, but his only gesture of acknowledgement is the slight tilt of his head and a slow blink. Mike doesn’t know what it means that he can read whole sentences in that fractional shift. James at his most communicative sometimes barely approaches a whisper, but Mike has learned to hear him. There are times he can be utterly scorched by sarcasm inherent in the slant of James’ neck. Or be goaded by nothing but this, the _no shit_ blank face.

Yes, okay, _no shit _James is quiet every day. He is a persistent irritation for balancing in audio, and everyone with a hand in the editing reminds him of it constantly. But rather than looking chastened by Mike’s comment, James does whatever the micro-expression is that mocks Mike’s obviousness. Mike narrows his eyes, which is a particularly scathing look on him.

“I meant more quiet than usual, you Kung Fu Automaton.”

To say James cracks a smile at this would be overstating things, but the crease at the corner of his left eye deepens.

“First of all,” he says evenly, “That’s Jiu Jitsu Automaton to you.”

Mike’s first instinct is to mock the pretentious note in his voice _-Jiu Jitsu-_ but Jamie is within earshot and the last thing anyone wants is another _Velouté. _Instead, Mike plops himself down on the _single occupancy _sofa, close enough so the entire length of his thigh is pressed alongside James’. So close, Mike reckons they could fit an entire third person on the_ single occupancy_ sofa, provided it was a Baz-sized third and not a Spafford. Mike raises himself up slightly and drops again, settling heavily enough into the sofa that James’ laptop slips off his lap and towards Mike’s and, wait for it… James sighs exasperatedly. Perfect. Mike smiles, counts down until… yep. James eases the laptop shut and turns his attention to his seatmate.

“You are an absolute menace.”

“And yet here we are, cuddling.”


	3. Bagpipes

3\. Bagpipes

It was way worse than Jamie had intended, square on, swift, and James’ arms had been folded leaving his midsection completely unguarded. Instead of mocking laughter in the aftermath, there’s a troubling, stunned silence, save for the sickly breathy sounds coming from where James is crouched over.

Ben, who hadn’t seen what happened, ends the silence with a classic Ebbersism; a snooty “Shall I continue?” into the camera. He’s instantly cowed by the absence of pushback and catches on that something bad has happened. The shift from exasperated leader to mother hen as its written on his face is hilarious on camera.

“Oh fuck,” says Jamie, bereft in a helpless sort of way. That Jamie isn’t laughing his head off hints at how inadvertently vicious it had been, how wrongly it had gone. He goes to reach down for James, consoling dad demeanor in place, but then realizes he’s still holding the implement in his hands. He does a comical kind of jump away from the scene of the crime instead. Mike holds back a laugh at how muppety a flustered Jamie can be.

Barry, shocked mouth working open and closed like a fish’s, can only make a sound like a giggle, but more hysterical. It occurs to Mike that he is getting a view into just how worthless they would all be in face of an actual crisis. Useless or not, you decide.

For his part, Mike tries to maintain some levity. Provided James regains function in his penis and testicles at some point in the future, this will be the funniest thing they’ve filmed all day.

“Right in the bagpipes,” he proclaims cheerfully to the nearest camera. They will definitely dub that classic sound, the flat wheezing of bagpipes, over the incident.

From the floor, James issues an indignant, deeply pained but still amused grumble. A string of curses and idle threats indicates that he can breathe again, and it starts to break apart the potential seriousness of the crime. A collective sigh of relief fills the studio at the evidence of his continued sense of humour. And that’s James for you, gracious as ever, even after he’s been whacked in the balls with a rolling pin.

Nobody knows why James is prey to that particular form of abuse more than anyone else. It might have something to do with his relative height and the level of his target area. Maybe the slim fitted, getting-more-snug-with-every-leg-day look of his stupid hipster trousers is proving irresistible. It might be that it’s one of few ways to get any reaction, be it ever so slight, from the man.

The fallout is funny enough to make up for the horror of the initial incident. Jamie leaves a liberal four-foot safety buffer around James for the remainder of the shoot, on constant high alert. Barry’s hands hover protectively close to his own groin. Ebbers stands behind tabletops and chair backs, anything he can keep between him and the all-out cock-punching war Jamie has surely instigated.

Mike finds himself mostly unbothered. If it had been anyone else... but these things often start and end with James, hinging entirely on his unmerited benevolence. So Mike carries on casually. He’s already plotting to get James on the outro. He might raise the voice several octaves in the edit. Hilarious. Stupid. Perfect.

“I was busy trying not to be sick all over the kitchen,” James says later, when nobody can believe the dearth of retribution. He does continue to look a little fragile. James always moves with a sort of measured athleticism, slow but showcasing a commendable level of fitness. Now he has the posture of a diseased soufflé.

Mike knows there’s more to it, the absence of retaliation. The reluctance to engage in the kind of hyper-friendly violence that, absurdly, often seems to start with spindly little Baz. Mike knows from stories, and from his innate sense for confederate misery, that prepubescent James was a runty kid, prone to scraps and even more prone to coming up on the losing side. Now obnoxiously tall and broad shouldered, James affects a certain kind of learned gentleness, like he has a determined opposition to coming across anything like domineering. A cautious way about him. It’s profoundly endearing to anyone who has ever been bullied, a group Mike thinks may include everyone by the time they reach adulthood. James is, resolutely_, soft_ _AF._

(It also draws women to James like he’s packing a tractor beam from one of his silly sci-fi books in his trousers, but Mike doesn’t care about that.)

Jamie, on his way home to his progeny now that he’s sterilized poor James, gives one last apology. A shambling, experimental tone, with a tenuous edge of humour in it. Jamie is good at this sort of thing, but he doesn’t know James nearly as well as the others, so he’s more unsure of himself than usual.

And James does the greatest thing ever. He _hugs_ Jamie, embraces him with warmth and sincerity. It is at once the most comforting and menacing gesture ever perpetrated. That ginger Michael Corleone bastard. Mike is beside himself in admiration. He is James’ number one fan.

It feels like they’ve watched James come into his own these last few years. Mike wonders what he had been like during his work term in America. Connecticut country club cougars would undoubtedly eat up this plating of James Currie. But the pre-Sorted, baby James version had probably been at most vaguely amusing to women; a shifting accent on a breaking voice, his face turning full flush on a single teasing word or gesture. He’s a confident man now. Provided he overcomes the attempted neutering by rolling pin with his genitals intact.

As things settle down, Mike hands over a bottle from the fridge It’s an IPA as per a once stated preference, but James is not as choosy when it comes to drinks as one would expect from a _chef_. James takes the beer in his hands and immediately holds the cool glass of it against his crotch. Ebbers snickers from the other side of the room. Barry winces sympathetically.

“That was funny. We should film you doing that,” Mike says.

James smiles at him and it’s the generous hug all over again. Warmth. Sincerity. James can make anyone feel admired and cherished by him with a look. Presumably because they are. James is nothing if not authentic. Mike is so busy basking in the glow of the smile that he just misses the mischievous glint. That telltale microscopic creasing around the eyes.

“Get fucked, Huttlestone,” James says pleasantly.

Mike laughs so hard his eyes well up.


	4. Does it Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revenge, like gazpacho, is best served cold.

4\. Does it Hurt?

They are filming a race around Borough Market in separate groups, and when they join back together, Mike notices it first.

“Oh no. You missed an ear, mate.”

The first sunny day of the year and James has been liberal with the sun cream, apart from his left ear, which looks like a perfectly oven-blistered tomato flattened on the side of his head. Mike prods at the ear with his finger, jabbing a little harshly, and James’ shoulders hunch up as he hisses in pain.

Ebbers asks the stupid question first, with a note of sympathy that is quickly forgone by the rest of the group when James’ irritation proves too tempting.

“Does that hurt?”

“Yes,” snaps James. “It’s _burnt._ So. Yes.”

He comes across vastly more annoyed by the idiocy of the question than he is by the pain of Mike’s poking, so Mike keeps touching him, petting him obnoxiously around the side of his head that has the red ear. He can feel the heat radiating off it.

“I suppose I ask because I don’t have as much experience with burning things…”

“Ebbers! Devastating!” crows Barry.

“And James receives two critical burns in one day,” says Jamie.

Mike watches in real time as the rest of James’ face goes red.

It becomes _The Thing_, for the entire day. Any time James begins to comment on something, trying to give the camera one of his cheffy bits, someone will undermine him at the end with a “does that hurt” and Mike will focus his camera in on James’ ear. He hasn’t decided yet what they’ll make of this running gag in the edit, but he expects there will be bad graphics of flames and smoke. _Does it hurt _turns out to be a useful segue and James will wind up in the video far more than he’d probably like.

Baz and Jamie step away from the group to film additional race commentary, and that too, comes back to _the thing_.

“I was down the other end of the market, wondering how I would find my way back through the crowd, and then I saw James’ scorched ear in the distance, like a brilliant red sunset.”

“A great miserable beacon in the distance.”

“But _does it hurt_, do you think?”

Mike pans over to the rest of their group chatting in the distance and zooms in on the back of James’ head for yet another visual reference to his mismatched ears. He’s so caught up in the camera viewpoint that he doesn’t see Jamie until he’s crept right up behind James. Jamie sticks out his hand and, making a creepy face to boot, extends a finger to stroke James’ ear.

“Does it hu—”

James times it brilliantly. He’s in full conversation with Ebbers, plotting the next stage of the race, determining what the fun new format has perhaps missed in terms of sourcing actual useable ingredients, and he just lets his arm swing down and back, the heel of his hand nailing Jamie in the balls. James casually refolds his arms over his chest while Jamie begins to carry on.

The way Barry crumples over laughing somewhat mirrors the way Jamie drops in a heap of pained wailing. Meanwhile James and Ben continue chatting nonchalantly. Ben spares only the slightest dismissive look in Jamie’s direction before returning his attention to the discussion. It looks amazing on camera.

“This is art,” Mike proclaims in the booming voice he uses for proclamations.

He regrets it almost immediately, because James is so quiet that they nearly miss his comment altogether. They’ll have to subtitle. Per usual.

James has not yet learned to fully trust the edit. He is the worst for camera consciousness, worrying that his funny comments could be taken out of context, worrying that he has been cruel, that he has crystalized someone’s private embarrassment into _content_. Nothing Ben or James ever says could be mistaken for malice, but where Ebbers is content with the exasperated schoolteacher persona, James fights the whole grumpy ninja thing. Which is ridiculous, because grumpy ninja is Mike’s favourite.

So James is understated to the point of the microscopic, which is comedy in itself, when his whispers and subtle actions have to be contextualized in the lower third. In editing, they give Barry his mumble translator and James a personality amplifier.

Mike hopes they’ll be able to use it on this moment, because as soon as he proclaims _This. Is. Art_. with Jamie still writhing and Ben still nonchalantly speaking, James says, softly, from the side of his mouth:

“Did that hurt, Jamie?”

Mike is laughing so hard the camera shakes.


	5. Microscopic Irritants

5\. Microscopic Irritants

“Does nobody else think this is disturbing?”

“No.”

“No.”

“Nope.”

“Apparently it’s an aphrodisiac.”

“You should love oysters, mate. They’re pure science fiction.”

“Right up your alley.”

“That’s… not how you use oysters.”

“Despite what you’ve heard about using them as an aphrodisiac.”

“But a meal of sexy oysters _and_ a precious gemstone… imagine how impressed your date would be.”

The problem was that James had only _just _overcome his spiteful feelings towards oysters. His first two encounters had been so bad that he’d sworn off mollusks for years. Swearing off any kind of food as a chef requires a profound commitment, so it had to be an incredible level of resentment he’d been harbouring in the first place. Only the peer pressure of looking pathetic to over a million and a half Youtube followers had been enough to get him to join the rest of them at sampling oysters last time. Also, a lot of alcohol. But now…

_Their first Pacific oysters. Recommended according to Lost and Hungry rules. Caught personally by the chef and cooked over the grill in the half shell. James gamely tried the dish and almost immediately spit something into his hand. His face rigid with horror._

Mike reads from his phone.

“It says the chance of finding a pearl in a food oyster is less than one in one thousand.”

“Does it say how distressingly _tooth-like_ a pearl is?”

“Does it say what the chances are of finding three pearls?”

“It has to be one in a million.”

“Does it say how _utterly_ _distressing_ it is to have three _tooth-like_ pearls loose in your mouth?”

“Get over yourself James. You’ve still got all your precious gigantic teeth.”

“Only just.”

“Are pearls strong enough to break teeth?”

“We’re all missing the important thing here.”

“That his ears are gigantic too.”

“Ha. But no. The important thing is…”

“That I will never eat another oyster.”

“Yeah, right. We’ve heard that before.”

“The important thing…”

“Is: How valuable are teeth sized pearls?”

“If they’re valuable will you stop whinging about how much you hate oysters again?”

“Depends how valuable.”

James calls it a night early, still unsettled by his remarkable discovery and exhausted by his renewed anti-oyster fanaticism. Mike walks back to the rental house with him, a box of microbrewery beers curated by Sorted viewers tucked under one arm. The best remedy he can think of to settle James’ nerves is_ several beers._ It has yet to let them down.

They arrange themselves in the sitting room of the house and Mike is reading from his phone again.

“Pearls are created when microscopic irritants enter the oyster shell.”

James is ignoring him completely.

“It takes twenty years for a saltwater pearl to form. They’re worthless, by the way, except as a souvenir”

“Mike.”

“Yes, James.”

“Shut. Up.”


	6. The Thrown Stone

6\. The Thrown Stone

James Currie, absolute lad, has taken up meditation in a big way. It comes up over a meal together, just the two of them, while Mike is trying out labels for James’s brand. _Stylishly Utilitarian _is his perennial favorite_, _replacing_ Bread Hipster, _which always seemed needlessly limiting. _Ginger Ninja_ was just entirely too heartless for a guy who unabashedly _embraces_ people the way James does. There are situational brands, of course. _Pasta-er The Grouch. Fruit Ninja. Bitter Baker. _

“Meditation. Is this more of the yoga thing?”

“Sort of?”

James tries for a while, but he can’t quite explain why he does it, or what it means to him, despite Mike’s carefully non-judgmental querying. Mike loves this side of James, the off-camera, _Everything You Do_ taken to heart thoughtfulness.

“It’s like Baz on skis. Or you or Jamie… getting into a song, maybe? I don’t know.”

“Like Ebbers listening to the sound of his own voice,” Mike jokes, but he’s fascinated. If this is James’_ music_, he has to see this.

They joke a bit about the things that might make Ben Ebberell blissfully Zen, like slipping into his favorite pair of red shorts, or like placing a perfect sprig of transcendental mint on the apex of his eternal soul. Like rolling around on a still warm pile of sexy, sexy quiches.

“Mulitiple Quiche… Quich-es?”

“Just quiche, I think,” offers James. His eyes narrow as he says it again to himself. “Les quiches.”

That will give him something to meditate on, Mike thinks.

People start coming back from lunch, returning to _Fun_ in the kind of cheerful clamouring way that portends an epic afternoon of filming_._ Mike starts clearing up. It’s shaping up to a great day and he doesn’t even know why.

The little card with the address for the meditation class is as open an invitation as he’s ever had, but it has left James vulnerable, set out there on the table by Mike’s plate, so Mike discreetly pockets the card before anyone else sees.

“It’s when I’m my most… me,” James says finally. Characteristically quiet, so that Mike relies on some other sense, hears James with something more than his ears, automatically filling in the James amplifying chyron. When James is at his most… _James?_ And oh, yes, now Mike has to see this meditation thing.

…

He narrowly keeps his eyes from rolling around his skull at the sight of some of the other attendees to the meditation centre. The multi-coloured patchouli reek of it all is not what he’d imagined for simple, elegant James. James is freshly baked bread and a particularly clean-smelling hair product. James is occasionally swapping grey for black, mixing monotone clothing in a way that makes his pale pink skin and rusty hair seem vivid by comparison. These people are preposterous, and James is reason incarnate. James is immensely more grounded than any of these walking root vegetable medleys.

But James has been in a stormy sort of mood the entire journey over, so Mike tries to take it seriously. Even when he watches a handful of people sit cross-legged on cushions and sway like the worst kind of white people on gap year travel highs. And it kind of works, for a moment. Mike leaves behind the brittle, ordinary thoughts of the day-to-day and breathes deeply for a moment. But then he peeks, catches a glimpse of James, and that’s how he’ll get through the remaining half hour of the meditation session. He watches James become something otherworldly, immensely calm and immaculate. He’s a deep pool of stillness and Mike feels profoundly compelled to be the thrown stone that sets off ripples.


	7. Defining Image

When he leaves, and he will be the first to go, Mike knows he will carry certain defining images for the rest of his life.

Ben’s is obvious. He puts real effort into presenting a single defining image. Black chef’s jacket, heavy frame glasses, red shorts, in the kitchen garnishing a dish with seven varieties of mint. LOL. No. The version of Ben that Mike will keep in his head until his dying day, is at the airport. Obnoxious Travel Ben, with his wheeled case and ugly walking shoes, stopped and checking his phone in the Arrivals hall. And before Mike is spotted, before he can jog up and say “Surprise, mate” and gain 500 Friendship Brownie Points for the pick up, Ben’s perfect counterpart, the man they will come to know as Obnoxious Travel_ David,_ bounds into the shot with the rest of the luggage, joins Travel Ben, kisses his face and sets Ben’s glasses off-kilter. Ebbers glows, the happiest Mike has ever seen him, and does nothing to readjust his glasses. Mike sacrifices the Friendship Brownie Points for airport pick-up and accrues the much more elusive Friendship Brownie points for knowing when to leave well enough alone. They don’t get many glimpses into this side of Ben. Content and not “on” for public consumption. And that’s image one: Ben Ebberell, sorted.

They’re not all quite so soppy. The enduring image he will always keep for Baz is a fall or a flail. An exuberant physical reaction. Barry is being surprised by a flambé, or paying too much attention to his camera to save himself from sliding down a muddy slope on his arse. Baz, ironically, will not be immortalized in a photograph in Mike’s mind, but in a video. And not a cinematic slow motion sexy, but a choppy compilation. A blooper reel or at least an action-comedy.

Jamie is easy. How could anyone forget his presentation style, the way he tells stories and jokes. The way he commands an audience, charms sponsors and elicits loyalty. Jamie is a walking TED talk, except that he’s _actually_ inspiring and also hilarious. Jamie is a born performer and his defining image has to be him performing. Wrong again, idiots! Jamie is cross legged on the floor listening with rapt attention as his eldest child gives a serious seminar on which animals are funniest. The quintessential Jamie image is going to be of him as an audience.

James Currie is the challenge. Mike doesn’t want to believe he’ll ever need an image of James to last for the rest of his life. But that’s the part that strikes fear in his heart. Because he will save those mental images of the others as a way to cherish their time in this iteration, this current era, but he knows with all his soul that they’ll still be seeing one another when they’re in their seventies, and Jamie has gone bald and Barry has arthritis, and Ben is pretty much exactly the same way he is at this age.

But Mike could see them losing James. For one thing, James is a bit shit at tracking conversations that aren’t in person. Great vetting process for their social media man of many years, right? But consider all the times they’ve asked something of him in the group chat only to have James show up to discuss the detail in person. He sometimes gets stuck in on things to the exclusion of all else, and Mike fears that James’ next project will consume him entirely. His _life_ is a bit of an immersive dining experience. Unless… Well, Mike is only eighty five percent certain that “Immersive Dining Experience” isn’t just cheffy code for an orgy.

(Mike sometimes wonders if there’s a sensory thing going on there. James working in noise-cancelling headphones in the darkest corner of the studio, aggressively dismayed if anyone touches him. The ways he jumps to cover his ears when someone gets upset regardless of whether they’re the type to carry on. Mike has a suspicion the clever way to defeat James in a Jiu Jitsu game or match or whatever their little ninja meet-ups are called, would be to just to yell at him.)

James is smart lines in a specific brand of notebook, which he’d tested in the shop to make sure the pages would lie proper flat. James is removing punch-embossed stickers with alcohol for three hours and stamping out replacements because Jamie peeled back a corner on each spice label as a joke. When their lives are increasingly messy, and full of kids and spouses and diverging careers, how will James organize? Will he be able to make tidy spaces for each of them? And the more Mike considers it, the less he worries about keeping the perfect characterization of James preserved in an image. He worries more that James will simply “mise en place” the rest of them out of existence.

He’s thinking about it one day while he’s sabotaging office supplies. Stupid things. Cello tape on the optical mouse. Sending disgusting pictures to the printer and removing the paper so whoever goes to print something and does the refill gets a fun surprise. He takes a fresh stack of notebooks that are waiting in a cupboard for James –nobody else is that stubbornly analog in arbitrary ways—and flips them open to leave graffiti on random pages. The standards; cocks and balls, stick men doing rude things, a lot of slander aimed at Scottish people. After a particularly rude sketch three quarters of the way into an otherwise pristine book, he thinks to inscribe on the page: “Barry’s done this” and then autographs it “BAZ” in all-caps.

It’s months before James finds it. He’s stood in front of the storage shelving, writing out a shopping list on a lined page (there are literally one meeeellion apps for that, Currie) when he flips to a fresh page and gasps. The book drops from his hands.

“Mike,” he groans as he retrieves the book off the floor. “What the hell?”

Mike had forgotten about all that. It was so many acts of petty vandalism ago. When James flips through and holds up the pornographic cartoon for him to see, his surprised laughter is genuine. James does scandalized very well, his maybe possible sensory thing again, ruffled feathers and pearl clutching before he gathers his calm.

“What have you done, Michael?”

He feels a bit bad, because he can tell that James is nearly gutted for real. The look on his face considering the book with regret and sympathy, like it has received a terminal diagnosis. Mike can see the gears turn as he decides what to do, partway through the notebook and now he either has to cut out the offending page with a knife (never would James Currie leave a ragged torn edge behind) or get rid of the book (but it has so many important notes).

Mike admits nothing. He points to the inscription.

“No, Mate, look. It’s Barry’s done this, see?”

James is already using one hand to cover half his face. When Mike takes the book from him for closer inspection, his other hand finishes the job.

“I mean, he’s done the drawing,” Mike clarifies, rapping his knuckle against the page. “I don’t think he’s flexible enough to have done this. Um. Act.”

The journey James’ face takes when he drops his hands is hysterical and it seems to settle on and apply for citizenship in the region of acceptance.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh. “At least sign your name to your work properly.”

Mike takes the proffered pen, crosses out the BAZ and neatly autographs the sketch.

“Thank you,” says James, taking his book back and hugging it to his chest. “I’ll always have this to remember you by.”

It strikes a melancholy note that Mike is not prepared for, James Hecking Currie always too close to the mark, chef-in-residence in Mike’s brain, and he can feel it hit him behind the eyes. But then James undermines it, in his softest aside, the high-pitched sotto voice he uses when he half-arsed tries to keep something massively savage out of the sound mix.

“In case you get _murdered_.”


	8. Smooth

Ebbers is not usually the last one in, but his flight home had been delayed and he’d taken the morning off. He’s still feeling a bit abstracted when he arrives at the studio, not quite landed from his holiday. The familiar sight of James tucked into a corner of a sofa, serene and anchor solid, draws him over. James smiles warmly and looks glad to see him.

“You look well, mate, how was the trip?”

“A bit rushed,” Ben says. “But still quite relaxing.”

James smiles again, maybe a slight bit of wistfulness in the edges, mild envy. He’s huddled up in a hoodie that is certainly not his own (James exclusively wears scratchy jumpers on the three days of the year when he is forced to admit it’s damn cold) and he looks tired, hooded eyes lowered more than normal. Evidence of a kitchen mishap? He bears a similarly suggestive damp patch on the left thigh of his jeans.

Ben frowns. There is a familiar commotion coming from the central kitchen. Arriving in the afternoon, he expects to see the typical loose arrangement of Sorted staffers, working on laptops and talking on their phones, preparing for the afternoon meeting. The clamour from the kitchen, at odds with James’ understated greeting, is jarring. Not the welcome to which he is accustomed. Not to be too officious about it, but he expected everyone to be somewhat more impressed at his arrival. Not waiting at the door like obedient border collies to relieve him of his coat, but at the very least… aware. Something is amiss.

“Are we filming today?”

James’ eyes roll to the ceiling.

“Thankfully, no,” he says.

He drinks from a mug he’s had balancing on the sofa arm and declines to elaborate. Ben’s mouth hangs open for a moment, out of practice at the art of prompting. He used to worry about James’ innate ability to strike him dumb, what it would mean for his presenting if they followed Mike’s push for having James on camera more. James can create vacuums of space, awkward quiet bits that Ben should be loath to allow, but somehow the silent pieces work. The others balance Ben’s grammar and enunciation with argot and enthusiasm, the savory and sweet. James is something else altogether. The palate cleanse. The steady state. There is nothing quite so reliable as a man who is continually grumpy precisely about being called grumpy.

Ben gestures vaguely towards the source of the noise.

“Then why…?”

“Mike knocked some things off the table this morning.”

It’s a non sequitur that Ben can’t quite parse. James notices his confusion.

“My drink spilled. Mike decided to make a replacement smoothie for me.”

“And the other two?”

“Hm. Barry didn’t like the colour of the first one. He jumped in to fine-tune it.”

“And Jamie is in there because…?”

“Unclear.” The syllables land as two distinct words.

Ben turns to watch the action. He waves, but there’s a blender running in short bursts and all three of the Normals are gathered round a bowl. Nobody notices him.

“_Should_ we be filming?” he asks.

Their best videos do tend to start with the dizzy provocation that comes from too much time together, the boredom inherent in knowing one another too well, the mild aggravation of their inescapable devotion. Yes, too much friendship can be cloying, but it’s funny, from an outside point of view. A breakfast smoothie battle is not much of a basis for shaping a video, but…

“No, I don’t think so,” says James. He sounds agitated. “They’re all a bit _unbearable_ at the moment.”

Ben can’t help the travel-weary giggle that escapes. He knows exactly what is meant by that. It is a bit silly. It’s like he’s come home from business to a spouse left too long a single parent of boisterous children.

He watches the Normals, still so preoccupied that they’ve yet to notice his return. Jamie has his back to the chefs and Ben can see that he is hiding the lid to the blender from the other two. Barry is arranging small mounds of chopped fruit into a colour palette of some design. He can see Mike looks cold, in short sleeves and holding a dripping tray of ice cubes. He knows where James got his borrowed clothing, at least. He hopes whatever he’d had on before isn’t permanently ruined.

“It was a nice gesture of Mike’s, anyways,” he offers, a reminder, though James is generally appreciative of the smallest token. He’s not sure if he means the hoodie or the thought behind the smoothie before the other two had piled on. There are good intentions in there, he’s sure. But James is not consoled. His nose wrinkles with distaste.

“About four hours ago, I found it touching. But they’ve yet to—”

James _whimpers_ suddenly, a gasping little cry, cutting himself off. One of his hands goes to the back of his neck. Startled Ben thinks bee sting, or muscle spasm, some invisible attack, but then he recognizes the movement. Aborted anger. James trying to massage the tension away.

Over in the kitchen: the unmistakeably wet geyser sound of an unsecured blender.

“I just realized,” says James. “There is no chance of them doing their own washing up.”

James is a broken man. He offers no resistance when Ben reaches for the laptop, flips it shut and sets it aside. Ben puts a guiding hand on his shoulder and coaxes him to his feet.

“Come on. You need something stronger than whatever was in that blender.”

He manages to get James and himself out the door with a series of ambiguous hand signs and motions, swiftly, before the smoothie brigade can take notice. One or two confused looks follow him and James out of the studio, but Ben is already composing the group text:

**back in 30 min**

He looks up from his phone to see James following along to his right and a little behind, moving so slowly as to almost be standing still. He looks like an avatar in one of his video games, run up against a wall, legs churning, but effectively trapped. Ben backspaces out the thirty minutes and replaces it with one hour, then erases the whole message and types:

**Chef business off-site. Postpone meeting to tmrw.**

James is mumbling, not taking his usual care to outmaneuver the lisp.

“You should have seen my shirt… It was absolutely obvious…”

Ben puts his arm around his traumatized colleague.

“It’s okay, James. A nice lunch for the two of us, a few pints. Forget the smoothie. This is better.”

“You don’t_ understand,_ Ebbers. First of all, I was drinking a latte_..._”


	9. Lemony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit of crack I wrote while I decide what to do with James screaming OH NO OH NO OH NO OH NO in today's video. 
> 
> The story revolves around Mike being annoying, so I was all "I have a place for that!" And here we are.
> 
> The lemony thing courtesy The Lemon Meringue Battle and James's blurry background amusement at everything Mike says... https://youtu.be/B_cmj9QZ6dY?t=279

Mike is happily ensconced in his seat, warm off the exact correct number of pints, and the kind humor and joy that radiate from conversation with one of his best mates.

James looks less comfortable. He’s combined beverages badly, wine on lager. And he’s not had enough to eat. And he’s frowning out the window like he’s working out a challenging riddle. When he turns to look at Mike, he looks tired.

“Your mate David…” he says, and immediately trails off. Slight confusion there, and something like intrigue.

Mike has been waiting for this, the late dawning of realization. James is perpetually clueless about people flirting with him, and David had been more subtle than most.

“What about him?”

They are returning by train from an educational trip, two days of filming and research about the sort of vegan foods that are freakishly similar to their animal-based counterparts. The last interview was with a vertically-challenged café owner slash musician friend of Mike’s. The David in question.

David had clearly been head over heels in lust with James from the moment they kneaded a seitan dough together and James’ arms had done _the thing_. Mike had been mildly gleeful watching it unfold, imagining a Jealous Janice narration that he would never actually record, lest the video embarrass sensitive David.

“He’s a little gay, right?” asks James.

Mike shoots a glance over at his companion, the febrile look of him, the odd phrasing, the uncharacteristic lack of posture. Ohhh. He sees it now. James is well sloshed.

“A little gay? I don’t see why his size needs to come into it,” cracks Mike.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Just because you have the physique of a bearded bread god…” Mike continues in a mocking tone. “And he’s just a normal man, that doesn’t mean…”

“I don’t mean a little gay man, I mean is he a little…”

“A little _person? _You bastard. He was very clear with his pronouns.”

“This has drifted into ‘too lemony’ territory,” grouses James.

Mike laughs. “Because you can’t be too lemony, or because he can’t be a little gay?”

James just sighs. Mike feels a miniscule twinge of regret. Sometimes James only has the bandwidth for idle chitchat, and normally Mike is better about holding the absurd type of banter at bay. It’s the same with positivity. James likes his chocolate dark and bitter, but he doesn’t always like his friends that way, (which is fine because James has an uplifting effect on Mike.)

“You can be whatever you want to be, Mike.”

The _boredom_ in his voice! Like he’s exhausted by Mike’s antics alone, and not the wine he’d filled up on earlier, in the thirty-minute delay after the restaurant had messed up their dinner order. Then James yawns, and Mike’s twinge of regret disappears at the absolute gall of it.

“Anything you want to be, as long as you’re not too little, according to you, you lanky bigot.”

James covers his face with his hands and takes a breath, gathering steam to put up with the intensity of a bored Huttlestone. When he speaks, his voice is muffled.

“I just meant a little gay in the way that _most people are a little gay._ Not that he is a gay man who is also, physically, little.”

Mike’s heart gets slightly gooey around the edges at the way tipsy James pronounces ‘little’. He throws up his hands.

“Then why didn’t you just say so in the first place?!”

James groans and makes a show of fishing his airpods out of his jacket pocket, slyly threatening to cut off conversation for the remainder of the journey. Mike, alarmed, tries to capitulate.

“But yes. He is, you know…”

“A little gay?”

“THERE YOU GO AGAIN WITH YOUR PREJUDICIAL—"

James leaps into action to cover Mike’s mouth with the palm of his hand.

“MIKE! I’M N— _I’m not prejudiced_,” he finishes softly.

James goes full fortress of solitude after that. Pods in, collar of his denim jacket pulled up to his chin, head bowed, eyes closed. It’s agony for Mike, who left his headphones at work by accident and had been _so_ looking forward to having a slightly tipsy James in his ears in their stead. Mike is so devastated, so bereft, that he almost misses the subtle undertones of the original question entirely. He replays it in his mind, audio-attuned for any tonal implications. _What had James really wanted to know?_

David is cute, but not James’ type. Tall, dark, and beautiful is the usual formula to James’ preferences, male or female. But there’s been a dry spell, Mike has deduced, and despite the joking around, James is the least prejudicial person on earth. And there had been an undeniable chemistry, James asking questions about wheat gluten and nutritional yeast, and David being his little adorable self, but slightly amped up.

The thing is, Mike has always thought of David as a sort of miniature, moderately-less-hetero version of himself. The ten percent scaled down version of Mike Huttlestone. David has the same blue eyes that would be a tick away from beautiful were they not slightly beady under thick brows. He has a similar thousand-watt smile, which, Mike supposes, is more like 900W on David, what with the scaling down. They often dabble in the same hairstyles and facial hair, mostly because he uses David as a preview of what works on their shared bone structure. And David is kind of funny, in the same frenetic, self-deprecating manner to which Mike aspires.

Also, they have similar taste in men.

James is asleep now, snoring so softly he sounds like a purring kitten. His brow is furrowed, either in dreaming or in fighting off a deeper sleep. What was he truly wondering about David? Is James also ‘a little’, in the way Mike is ‘a little’, and what does this mean for their friendship? When James was categorically NOT ‘a little’, in Mike’s mind, it never occurred to him to think of James’ attractiveness that way.

“Stop staring at me, you creep,” James murmurs.

Astonishing accusation, considering his eyes have been closed the whole time.

(Mike knows this because he’s been staring at him, like a creep.)

James starts to sleep again, and Mike returns to creeping, but the spell has been broken. Mike tries to take in James’ features in the magical way that moments before had felt intriguing, with the potential to be alluring. Now it’s just like looking at his lightly pickled best mate, who he admires and loves deeply. Not as off-putting as Baz or Jamie, he decides, but not pulling the exact right levers, to be vaguely crude about it.

Crisis of sexuality and friendship averted, Mike is bored again. He decides to pull at the David thread. He’s never considered James’ sexuality before, but something about the way David and he had played off of each other, not in the familiar chummy way, but something more like the way James is with certain females in their circles…

Mike prods him in the ribcage.

“James, I’ve just realized I never asked. Are you…?”

“Sleeping. Yes.”

“No, I mean, are you… Ha. Um. Are you a little…”

There’s a very long pause. James doesn’t seem bothered by it, dozing away in his seat. Mike frets. Maybe this has been a horrible misstep.

“Are you asking me if I am I a little…_ lemony?_” James says.

“Yeah.”

James sighs again and turns to the window, his back to Mike. Hope for an engaging conversation dims once again. He’s upset James and ruined the end of the trip.

Mike closes his eyes and tries to remember the meditation tactics he’d learned to calm himself. The breathing counts and body scanning. His toes are present and accounted for, his feet, his ankles. One of his calf muscles is tense from the nervous way he was bouncing his knee earlier. A breath in, ankles, calves, knees…

“I like to think I transcend the citrus spectrum,” says James.

Mike laughs with relief.


End file.
